Bittersweet Symphony
by nonamas
Summary: It was supposed to be Kurt's night. Kurt's prom.


**Title:** Bittersweet Symphony  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13 for the diabolical f-bombs.  
><strong>Spoilers (if any): <strong>2x20 basically.  
><strong>Warnings (if any):<strong> Swearing, Blaine!angst, sorta happy ending?  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 1,337  
><strong>Summary:<strong> It was supposed to be _Kurt's _night.

**A/N: **So I haven't written in a while, nor have I posted anything either, but after last nights episode I got caught up in the exquisite angst and had to write me some of that. I don't really know _what _this is (apart from a great distraction from my studying for an exam I have to take tomorrow), so um. Yeah. Title is from Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve.

* * *

><p>Ultimately, Blaine knew it was Kurt's night.<p>

Kurt, with that kilt and his hopeful, honest eyes. Kurt and his newfound _trust _for Karofsky_. _The feeling of safety that Kurt suddenly had. Blaine knew that Kurt hoped tonight would be the night. A chance for Kurt prove to Blaine- and to _himself- _that McKinley really _had _changed. Kurt thought he was safe, and though he may not be accepted by everyone with open arms and rainbow badges of gay love, he _belonged _at McKinley.

Blaine _knew _though_. _He knew with every bit of him that those fucking _kids—_those good for nothing, destined-for-a-two-dollar-an-hour-job _kids_—would mess up Kurt's night. People like him and Kurt, people like them. . . Well, that was it. People like _them. _Even in his own mind he was an outcast.

It was supposed to be a _school. _That was their _Principal _up there, announcing Kurt's name like he _had _to or something.

Blaine felt his hands clench and his mouth twist into something ugly, something like anger and hurt and pain and everything else his poor, beaten down heart was feeling right then as the silence of the gym crashed down on his eardrums.

Kurt was still beside him. Blaine hadn't missed Kurt's small intake of breath, the trembling brush of his hand against Blaine's, and then the jarring, unnerving gasp that tore from Kurt's body as Kurt rushed out of the gym.

Oh _fuck. _Right there and then everything came back to Blaine—John's face when the fucking assholes that had beaten them up had delivered their final blow to John's face. The bruises littered like twisted, horrific kisses on his skin. The way the bruises had seemed almost like _blessings _from them_. _Here you are, fag. We deem you totally _worthless._

As Blaine called out for Kurt his voice shook with not only pain that _Kurt—_hopeful, beautiful, dazzling _Kurt _who was running from him and out of his sight and breaking his heart with every step_—_had had to go through this, but because it had happened _again. _To Kurt. The boy he knew that he fucking _loved, _for God's sake.

Because God, if Blaine had spent all this time _waiting, _waiting for someone to hold out their hand and take him in and accept him and _love _him then God only knows what Kurt must have felt all those lonely months. And to have everything Kurt had built on and gained from Dalton and from having Blaine torn from him, _again, _in front of Kurt's whole school? It was like the beatings, the bruises, every taunt and shove and kick all over again. It was like that, but this type of humiliation was sly. It was conniving and done through the use of a fucking ballot.

Blaine had put himself out there; Blaine had reached out and took Kurt's hand that day they'd first met without even thinking about it. Without even realising it was what _he'd _wanted. Blaine had wanted—God, he'd _needed_—someone to do that. Blaine _had _wanted that, but not anymore. He used to be—and sometimes, without Kurt, still was- Blaine Anderson, the one who reached out and touched your heart through song, through words, through the simple touch of his hand. That's who he was.

He'd just needed that in return.

Kurt had given him that, though. Kurt had _done _that, for him. Yet _Kurt _was the one being pulled apart again, while Blaine stayed cushioned inside Dalton while he could do _nothing _for Kurt. Then or now, as he sat on the floor, tired and drained and _fed up _as he leaned against the lockers.

He let Kurt vent and cry, all the while physically _forcing _himself to not move and wrap himself around Kurt and take the boy away from all the pain. He wanted to hide him somewhere, away from pain and hurt and humiliation. Away from here so those pretty eyes would _never _have to shed another fucking tear. Not over those _assholes._

Blaine waited. Blaine waited until Kurt was done, because in the end Kurt was the strong one. Kurt could show his emotion and then make himself stronger _because of it. _And then Kurt thought Blaine was perfect. Blaine was some knight in scratched, chinked armour because Blaine was just good at _hiding _it, hiding away all _his _emotion. Blaine felt like one big walking _lie._

Kurt—Kurt would fight to the death. In the end Kurt would run back into the arena and fight whatever was put in front of him.

Blaine would throw a few punches then flee. He'd flee and never look back—not until someone took _his _hand and led him to safety.

And every part of him screamed at him to do just that when he reached out his hand for Kurt, who sat on the floor like a broken doll, going through the motions and convincing himself that going back in there would be what he needed. Every nerve cell, every part of Blaine's brain yelled at him to _run._

He didn't run.

He reached for Kurt. He _needed _Kurt to take his hand. He needed Kurt to hold him tightly and take them back in there because Blaine couldn't do it for them. He needed to know that as soon as Kurt would take his hand that it'd be OK. He _needed _Kurt's hand in his. This was his silent, desperate plea: _please show me this is going to be OK, because I need you right now, to help _me_ face what we just left behind._

Kurt took his hand.

Kurt got up on stage, eyes scanning the silent crowd and nervously taking in a breath before fucking _owning _them all. Beautifully, spectacularly and Blaine was so fucking _proud. _This was his _boyfriend—_this was Kurt Hummel.

Then Kurt was there alone on the dance floor, silent and proud and _breaking, _breaking like glass under the strain. Blaine could see the cracks, could see the tiny subtle breaks in Kurt's heavy armour that he'd only recently thought he could hang up for good.

He found himself walking towards Kurt, reaching out for Kurt's hand. He was fucking scared out his wits, and every part of him yearned to be bolting for the door—but this was Kurt. This was _his _Kurt.

He looked at his waiting hand and then at Kurt, lips pursing and hand trembling minutely under the harsh spotlight. God, he was scared. So, so scared.

But then Kurt's hand was in his own again, once more anchoring Blaine back to his place, showing Blaine without even _knowing _he was doing it that ultimately, someone would be there to take Blaine's hand too. Guide him through whatever people threw at them.

It was _their _night, after all.


End file.
